Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End (29 page)

Their plan was clear. Once we’d left the suitcase in the harbor, that bastard Ushakov would fire the grenade launcher at the
Corinth
, at Prit, Lucullus, and me. If one of those things could blow up a tank, imagine what it could do to a fiberglass sailboat like the
Corinth
.

The sailors climbed back on board the
Zaren
after loading the
Corinth
. I swear they had a sadistic expression on their faces. They were looking forward to the fireworks.

With a twinkle in his evil eyes, Ushakov approached me and stuck out me his hand. “I hope you keep your word, Lawyer. Leave the case on the dock
.
Then it’s every man for himself. No hard feelings.”

“Of course. No hard feelings,” I said as I bowed my head, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Ushakov slowly lowered his hand. “We live in difficult times, Mr. Lawyer. Things are changing fast; only the toughest will
prevail. I don’t expect you to understand. I act the way I do for very powerful reasons.”

I stopped, half my body hanging over the side, and looked hard at him. “You’d kill me over a fucking briefcase?” I snapped. “Tell me. What the hell’s in it?”

Ushakov looked at me with a frightening grimace. “Good luck, Mr. Lawyer,” he said with a smirk. “You’re going to need it.”

I climbed down the ladder to the
Corinth
’s deck, Ushakov’s laughter floating down around me. Once I’d set foot on the familiar teak deck, I untied the ropes, with everyone’s eyes on me.

The
Corinth
’s engine roared to life, and I gradually pulled away from the huge bulk of the
Zaren Kibish
, headed for the port where Prit and the briefcase waited. The second part of the dance was about to begin.

Water lapped quietly between the side of the
Corinth
and the black stones of the dock. As I approached the shore, with Lucullus nestled against my chest, purring nonstop, I thought about our next move. With a slight pressure on the rudder, I maneuvered the
Corinth
alongside the pier, next to the bollards, and tied it up.

I smiled, satisfied. I was relieved that the auxiliary motor, which I’d hardly used, responded perfectly. I would have been embarrassed to be stuck just a few hundred yards from shore, with sails furled and the crew of the
Zaren Kibish
looking on.

I passed my hand lovingly along the teak beam. The
Corinth
was a superb boat. She had sheltered me and saved my life. Now I must abandon her forever.

Before I jumped to the dock, I ran to the pulley wheel in the bow and grabbed the tip of the line. I kicked the sail locker open, jumped down in it, and waded through a lot of bunched-up fabric with the line in my hand. The locker smelled of Dacron, stagnant salt water, and rotting seaweed. The
Zaren
crew had carelessly gathered up the
Corinth
’s sails and piled them every which way.

On a bottom shelf, I found what I needed—the spinnaker, the huge-bellied sail used on the bow. It was normally only unfurled at sea with the wind aft, but I was confident no one aboard the Russian freighter had a clue how to sail.

I hooked one end of the upper ring of the spinnaker, then crawled on deck and turned the hand-cranked pulley wheel. With the familiar click of the winch, the spinnaker slowly ascended to the top of the mast, swelling slowly as the soft south wind brushed against its fabric. The huge sail spread open with a loud flutter. It didn’t stretch all the way, since I’d taken the precaution of leaving the bottom sheets loose.

The huge sail hung along the length of the ship, slack like a gigantic curtain. Any sailor watching the
Corinth
would wonder what kind of freshwater rat had hoisted that sail in such a weird way. Had any strong gusts of wind blown through as I was putting up the spinnaker, it might’ve torn the sail and taken part of the rigging along with it.

All that went through my mind as I hurriedly adjusted the lines. The sail would only have to stay in that position for a few minutes, long enough for Prit and me to carry out our plan. This was the last service the
Corinth
would provide me.

The fluttering sail caused the hull to rock and bump against the dock. Each crack that scraped the fiberglass and chipped the wood pained my soul. It was a crime to treat the
Corinth
that way, but I had no time to put the side shields in place.

I dived into the cabin and rushed around filling my backpack with everything I’d salvaged off the dead soldier, my other wetsuit, which still dangled on the hanger, and one of the spearguns with a dozen spears. Some sailor from the
Zaren Kibish
with nothing better to do must’ve taken the other speargun as a souvenir.

A familiar mustachioed face appeared at the cabin hatch. I started passing all the bundles to Prit, and he set them on the dock. We worked feverishly and quietly. We had to empty it all in three or four minutes, or they’d figure out what we were up to on the
Zaren Kibish
. The huge sail blocked the view of the sector of the dock where we set our supplies, and disguised Prit’s trips back and forth. All they could see was a sailboat next to the dock, swaying in the breeze.

We were sweating like crazy as we hid our stuff behind the spinnaker, out of sight from the
Zaren
. Finally, I pulled on my wetsuit as Prit dragged a life-size male mannequin out of the back of the van, courtesy of a fashion boutique downtown. He dressed it in a yellow slicker, drawing up the hood as a finishing touch.

Not three minutes had passed from the moment I unfolded the sail till we set up the dummy in the cockpit of the
Corinth
. While Prit slipped back around the corner, I cut the line that held the
Corinth
to the dock.

In one smooth motion, the sailboat began to slide toward the harbor entrance. The rudder was locked in place so it would hold its course for a few minutes—more than enough time. Trying not to make noise, I let myself down into the water between the
Corinth
and the dock. The water was really cold, but I didn’t even notice. As the hull slid up against me, I took a few deep breaths and dived.

Diving relaxed me completely. I could make out the black silhouette of the
Corinth
as it pulled away, and beyond that, through the rushing waters of the port, the
Zaren Kibish
’s waterline.

I gently began to swim for shore, trying not to create lots of bubbles. Less than ten yards from the shore, I ran out of air. Angry with myself, I kicked a few more times. Finally, about to pass out, I surfaced at the dock, right where we’d tied up the Zodiac the first time. Prit was waiting to hoist me out of the water.

Breathing hard, we ran to the imposing Seguritsa warehouse. Dripping wet, I peered around the corner of the deserted dock, to where the
Corinth
had been just minutes before. At the edge of the dock, sparkling in the midday sun, lay the black Samsonite briefcase, the object of so much trouble.

Swaying as if a drunk were at the helm, the
Corinth
sailed slowly toward open water. Before getting off the boat, I’d caught up the sheets in the most visible way possible, trying to draw the attention of the sailors on the freighter. Now I was afraid I’d tightened them up too much and the sail would rip.

It was too late to worry about that. A barrage of automatic weapons fire from the
Zaren
’s bow splintered the
Corinth
’s deck into a thousand places. The dummy’s head rocketed through the air. Wood chips and pieces of carbon fiber flew everywhere as hundreds of bullets pierced the boat’s hull and rigging. A man stood on the bridge with an RPG-7 on his shoulder. The
Corinth
swayed and drifted less than two hundred yards from his position, making it an easy shot.

With a roar, the grenade hit the sailboat in a cloud of smoke and a blinding flash. The impact was devastating. A huge column of fire shot up through the hatches of the
Corinth
. The hull disintegrated into a million pieces.

As thousands of gallons of water flooded the injured vessel, another shell hit the deck. A jet of fire and smoke rose from the bowels of the
Corinth
, now a roaring inferno. A piece of mast spun in the sky and fell back into the water. With a gurgle, the battered hull sank to the bottom amid the explosions.

Pritchenko and I didn’t hang around to watch the show. We ran like hell down the alley to the idling van. As the last explosions on the
Corinth
thundered all over the port, Prit gently accelerated and headed for the exit.

In the backseat, a fat, happy orange cat was perched in a mesh cage, contentedly eyeing his owner and a small mustached man who drove as if the devil were carrying him to hell.

Prit and I smiled. Not only had we danced with the devil, we’d gotten out alive. Nestled between the two seats sat a black Samsonite suitcase sealed with red tape, identical to the one we’d left on the dock.

Everything was going too well. And that was the problem. We got too confident. We let our guard down. We acted like heroes out of a damn action movie, and we paid the price. The world today is dirty, mean, tough, and terribly dangerous. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned. Burned. Fuck. That’s ironic. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

When we drove away from the rubble of the port, we were euphoric. We were alive, healthy, with a car full of supplies and weapons. And we knew where a helicopter was, so we could get out of that hole. Everything was going smoothly.

Prit drove like a madman through the deserted streets of a Vigo suburb. Out the window I saw luxury villas, most of them locked up tight. Some had boarded-up doors and windows. Those safeguards suggested that it was one of the first neighborhoods evacuated in an orderly and systematic way.

After several months of neglect, the area was starting to look really bleak. The houses peeped out from behind overgrown
bushes and weed-choked gardens. On one driveway, a fire-engine-red tricycle lay on its side, gradually being consumed by hedges. With all the humans gone, nature was reclaiming its place. Almost no cars were abandoned on the shoulder. Maybe their owners had fled in them, trying to escape the inevitable.

There were dozens of undead in that area. Their occupation of the city didn’t seem to follow any pattern. There were wide avenues where you only saw a couple. Then, around a corner, you stumbled upon dozens, even hundreds, of them, wandering around or staring off into space, waiting for prey. What motivates them or draws them to one place or another is a mystery to me.

That neighborhood was a hot zone. There were dozens of those things at every intersection, in every garden, some in good shape, others horribly maimed or disfigured. I’ve gotten used to them; their smell doesn’t even disgust me. I know what they are, and they know what I am. Period.

Prit zigzagged, dodging undead. He drove awfully fast, as usual. With each turn, the tires screeched, shaking us around like peas in a can. The undead appeared in greater and greater numbers. Prit performed heroic feats behind the wheel to keep from ramming them. We had to slow down, and the mob pursuing us was more abundant. It didn’t look good.

Out of the blue, a middle-aged guy appeared suddenly in the middle of the road. He was about fifty, heavyset, his shirt open to the waist, wearing lots of gold chains around his neck. Half his face was a bloody, tattered mess; he was deathly pale like the rest of them. We didn’t have time to dodge him.

Just seconds before, Prit had swerved to avoid a group of undead crowded together in the middle of the road. What happened next was inevitable. He didn’t see the guy until we were on top of him. With a loud thud, the monster’s body struck the front of the van and was thrown to the side, completely limp, leaving a
clump of putrid blood on the windshield. Prit swerved like crazy, trying to regain control, but the heavy van skidded out of control, dragging several of those monsters in its path as ominous noises came from its engine.

Doing a spectacular 360, our car finally stopped in the middle of the road, enveloped in the acrid smell of burning rubber. For a moment there was silence. I exhaled; I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. Once again I was glad to have the very talented Ukrainian at the wheel. He’d kept us from crashing and made sure the van didn’t stall. That would have been absolutely fatal.

But the motor sounded like it was falling apart. A thin trickle of steam wafted through a gasket mangled by the impact. The radiator had a leak—and not a small one. That motor’s days were numbered. It was a miracle it was still running.

Slowly putting the van in gear, Prit got us going again, this time more slowly. We weren’t laughing it up anymore. If the engine broke down in that infested area, with all the houses closed up tight, we’d be doomed to a certain death in seconds.

The next twenty minutes were endless. Both tires on the right side had blown out, so we inched along through the subdivision, wrapped in a cloud of smoke, with the temperature light on. We were forced to slow down to a lousy ten miles an hour as dozens of hands pounded on the sides of the van.

Suddenly my window exploded into a million pieces. It had been cracked by a previous blow, so a punch from one of those things shattered it. A young woman tried to climb through the smashed window, trying to grab me. She reached in and touched my face. Her touch was cold. Cold, wet, and dead.

I panicked, almost like when this whole nightmare started. Paralyzed with terror, I could feel her trying to slip inside the vehicle as Prit shouted hysterically in Russian and Lucullus hissed inside his carrier, baring his teeth.

When she put her hand on my thigh, I finally shook off my stupor. I grabbed the AK-47 and bashed her temple with the butt. She raised her head and hesitated for a second, staring at me with dead, bloodshot eyes. I hit her in the face again. The woman slipped back out the window, unable to hold on, her face completely mutilated.